Some of the fondest memories of Augusta National originated, oddly enough, during bathroom breaks

By: Ben Wright

If all my memories from broadcasting the Masters at the 15th
hole of Augusta National, some of the fondest originated, oddly enough, during
bathroom breaks. Invariably, whenever I shimmied down the ladder of the TV
tower, I would run into old friends and take a few moments to chat, catching up
on their lives and assessing the tournament.

Some of these acquaintances were rules officials who
patrolled that area of the course. These men often had interesting stories about
the day’s play—various incidents they had observed long before we TV people
reported for duty—and I would mentally file these stories for use during the
broadcast.

It was always a particular delight to talk with Joe Dey, the
only man to serve as both executive director of the U.S. Golf Association and,
later, commissioner of the PGA Tour. This most urbane of gentlemen was a walking
encyclopedia on the Rules of Golf. As far as I know, no player ever questioned
him on the subject—if Dey gave a rules decision, there could be no doubting its
veracity.

In 1978, I was on break during rehearsal, having just
announced Jack Nicklaus’ play at the par-5 15th. Dey greeted me, impeccably
dressed as always, but looking as if he had just seen a ghost—his face was white
as a sheet and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Naturally, I asked him
what on earth was wrong.

The story Dey related was so shocking that I promised him I
would not use it on the air. Attempting to reach the 15th green in two, Nicklaus
had come up short and watched his ball roll down the slope to the edge of the
water that fronted the putting surface. While waiting for Jack to reach the
green, Dey had walked around the pond to make sure he had seen the ball stuck at
water’s edge. (This was back when that slope was not shaved as closely as it is
today, when no ball can possibly remain on the bank.)

It was clear to Dey that Nicklaus (who uncharacteristically
was not a factor that year) planned to play the ball, which meant he would
likely shed his right shoe and sock and submerge his back foot for a reasonable
stance. Just then, Dey spied a gathering of venomous water moccasins lounging
just below where Jack’s ball rested.

Sure enough, Nicklaus began to peel off his shoe and sock—to
the delight of the gallery, but to the despair of poor Dey.

“I asked myself, ‘What should I do?’” he told me. “Had I the
right to warn Nicklaus of his impending peril? I had heard well how vicious
these cottonmouths could be. Or should I just be quiet and not interfere with
play? It was all happening too quickly. I made the snap decision that I was
there to observe and not influence play in any way, unless the Rules of Golf
came into question.”

So Dey remained silent and Nicklaus played his shot quickly,
with mud flying everywhere and his ball finishing inches from the hole for a
tap-in birdie. Fortunately he stepped out of the water and up onto the green
with a smile, blessedly unharmed. “I have never been so worried on a golf course
in my life,” Dey told me in conclusion.

In recent years, televised golf has produced a rash of
incidents in which self-proclaimed rules watchdogs call in perceived violations
and influence the outcome. One of the game’s most controversial stories of 2005
resulted when Sports Illustrated’s Michael Bamberger got involved in Michelle
Wie’s professional debut, questioning the legality of a drop that ultimately
lead to her disqualification.

But such an intrusion has never involved a player’s physical
well-being. Did Dey act properly in deciding not to intervene? I don’t know, but
I still shudder at the implications, wondering if a bear—even a Golden one—could
have been felled by a serpent.